Community Garden, Dogs, FUN!, Garden, New York City, POOP, Project, South Bronx

Project: Community Garden 5.12.14

And so it begins… a new project.

Captain Clam and I have taken in a stray. Well, he’s not a stray per se, and we are only watching him until the weekend… but we have a temporary dog! Meet Max (who we can’t seem to stop calling Sam).

 

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MAX!

We have been taking Max out for walks where our neighbors do… in an area next to Interstate 87 where the fence is open (it is the only place he will go poo). We have been dreaming up different schemes to make the area a nicer place for our neighbors to walk their dogs, and we wanted to do a really great project for our own selfish reasons. Of course I jest! We love our new neighborhood and really want to see it beautify. It would also be a great opportunity to pull a community together and even make a few new friends (as I do hear that creating new and meaningful friendships after 30 is quite difficult).

I don’t actually believe the dog had anything to do with the project, as we have been talking about this space for a few weeks, but actually going inside of the “run” made it clearer that something needed to happen. The entire area is overrun with weeds, trash, and broken glass. BUT, within the rubble I saw many different types of flowers growing, mint sprouts were coming up everywhere, and there were even a few ladybugs (and some stupid fucking mosquitos). Captain Clam and I ventured out there this evening with our new houseguest and started pulling some weeds and removing trash. We are confident that this project will be successful and functional as a flower garden for our neighbors and their dogs, and it will be a true test for us in our relationship and as individual designers (and gardeners).

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BEFORE! This lady’s booty photo-bombed us.

So there you have it, our very first BEFORE picture. We only worked for about an hour, not really making too much of a difference (AFTER picture to come on the next post (gotta keep you thirsty for more)), but it was hard work and we came in sweating and fully deserving of a beer. Our plan is to work on this project most weekdays and weekends we are in town. I will be documenting the process and hope that you will read and encourage. Hell, if you want to support, feel free to donate plants, supplies, or your time. You can even just send an email and say,  “Hey! My garden needs some help, too!” Maybe you just want to swing by with some lemonade or a few good jokes (and maybe some bug repellant). Captain Clam and I are really looking forward to this project. We also hope that it’s legal. But don’t tell me otherwise. I like a good surprise.

As for MAX… Considering his first act as our houseguest was to pee on a painting, we are a little smitten with him and are considering a more permanent housing arrangement in our aparment. The cats are battling it out now.

Stay tuned for more Community Garden Updates!

 

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Dear Crackhead, New York City, Overload, POOP, Sarcasm, Thank You

A Thank You Note to the Crackhead in my Stairwell

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Dear Crackhead in my Stairwell,

Thank you for the “good morning” the other day. I really needed that. I also really appreciated that you offered to clean up the mess you made with the toilet paper and tampons strewn all over the place. Thank you for mopping with hairspray, making the floors so sticky. And thanks for the the nasty broken earrings all over the place. How many piercings do you have?

Thank you for the puddle on the floor of the landing. I always thought that was my neighbor’s dog. I also love getting letters from my neighbors on the necessity of keeping the door completely closed so we don’t get “undesirable” people in the building. I’m glad you had a warm place to smoke your rocks and dispense your aerosol hairspray disinfectant.

Thank you for throwing the bags of garbage all over the place outside of my building. Us tenants love to wake up on Mondays and Fridays to see that you have taken up collecting cans again. It makes us feel good that toiling over sorting our garbage is going towards a good cause. The clear bags that we sort our recyclables in are obviously too much for you to handle when you are high on a Thursday afternoon. I am sorry for the inconvenience. I shall make it easier for you next time by just leaving piles of garbage loose in the streets. I will lure you there with a trail of quarters, cigarettes, and wet shit smears that have been rained on and tread through the streets by pedestrians. Nobody really likes their shoes anyway.

Thank you for breaking the glass door at our entrance when it is 18 degrees outside. I really appreciate coming home to glass and soggy shit at my front door. I don’t mind too much when the halls smell like weed, but when the halls are filled with smoke and the smell of burning plastic, I begin to worry. Please, be safe.

Yours Truly,

Apartment 4F

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Happy Birthday!, Love, Nieces, POOP

Sixteen Years Ago Today

It was 1998. I was sixteen. My sister woke me up at 5:30 in the morning. I asked her how she was feeling and she said “Today is the day.” I asked her how she knew and she told me her water had broken a few hours ago. I shit my pants. She told me it was okay and she already took a poop that morning so she didn’t to it “on the table.” What a relief! I wondered why the ambulance wasn’t there, but she was in no rush and calmed me down like she always did. I couldn’t stand the anticipation. Then I remembered I had Mrs. LeCann’s English midterm… I was off to school. Crap!

I had a beeper on me (it was so not mine), since this was the 90’s. I rushed through my midterm, checking my state-of-the-art device as many times as possible…. but if you know me, you know that I have a rough draft and then 6 re-writes to make before I put it in that little blue book. The buses pulled up and my pen was still going. I was the last one in the room and started to cry. Mrs. LeCann was stern but sweet (as always), “what’s wrong? she asked” I sobbed, “My sister is having a baby.” She said “They won’t leave without you.” I finished perfectly  (totally got an A+, tears and all) and got on my bus just as it was pulling out.

I got home after what seemed like hours, but no one was home. I was a disaster. Finally, my mom called. They were at St. Charles Hospital in Port Jefferson, NY, but no one wanted to leave to come get me. I was devastated until I heard my hot rod mom pull up outside the house. I hopped in the 1984 Thunderbird  T-Top Coupe and sped off towards a very different life.

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Pretty much the COOLEST person ever.

She was born around a quarter after 4 pm. The doctor (finally) came to us.” She’s a healthy baby girl! Mom is doing fine.” I almost died… pretty sure I cried and almost passed out (since there was so much blood on his pants). We called my dad and let him know he was a legit grandpa. We were finally let into the room and I got to hold her at last. What an ugly little alien baby she was! She was a little lump in my arms with an open top stocking on her head… she had blood in her hair and water logged skin, and I have never been so in love!

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Portrait of Love.

That first summer, I was the babysitter. We’d wake up around 8 so she could eat. Every once in a while she’d sleep until 9. I always wore a “puke shirt,” since she’d spit up all over everything. I never cared. Every morning she would sleep on my heart, like a peaceful kitten (and you know how I feel about kittens). She barely cried, since she never left my arms, and was spoiled with all the Auntie love that I never knew I had in me. Everyday she would change and grow, even if it was just a little mutant being… I saw it. She was bigger and stronger, and more loving, and curious every day. She was almost mine for that first summer.

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Little did I know…

One night, I was on the phone with a friend (who was a super hot boy I had known since forever), and I was babysitting my sweet little buzz kill. I had the cordless phone on one shoulder and was resting her in my lap, bouncing and playing (and probably chatting about how adorable this little lump was) when suddenly, my entire lap was filled with warm liquid. “Hmmph,” I though. “Oh, she peed on me.” But seriously, what baby pees that much? I took her upstairs to change her (still on the phone with my hunk) and I then discovered the ridiculous amount of urine was caused by a ridiculous amount of pudding textured shit in her diaper. Being the super human baby-nanny that I thought I was, I stayed on the phone and proceeded to get “pudding mush” in her hair, my hair, on both of our arms, the wall, the changing table, my shoes, my face, her face, etc. Needless to say, my phone call was cut short.

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Poop Machine.

There were many nights when we’d have our “sleep overs,” She’d pass out at 8:30 and then barf or piss on me by 10. I’d always blame it on the cheddar and oreo mix that she loved so much, and really never minded that much. She once got even with one of Aunt Chrissy’s (ex) boyfriends. He was laying on the floor tossing her around like the little bear that she was… and she puked right in his mouth and all over his face. It was brilliant. Still passing around mad props to her for that one.

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Sleep-over Gabby.

By the time I graduated High School, she and Annie were married and whisked away to their next grand adventure in Texas. I have (honestly) never fully recovered from the parting, but never saw how 2,069 miles (about 31 hours) could make all that much of a difference. And it sure as hell didn’t.

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Texas Gabby.

My sweet little Miss grew so big so quickly. She’d come around every now and again ( and I’d travel to wherever she might be) and we would have our sleepovers, minus the puking and peeing. She once told me that I needed to “grow up,” and somehow everything made sense after that. She’d ask me hard questions like, “Aunt Stephie, is there a God?” or “What’s a period?” And I’d always answer, “Well, that’s something your parents should tell you about first, but ask me again when you’re 16. I can’t influence your ideas just yet. When you’re 16, then we can talk.” I never actually thought that she’d ever be 16. Crap! Now I have to answer these questions…. and probably a few dozen more.

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Apparently, she didn’t get the memo about the Banana Face.

Well this little nugget grew and grew and wouldn’t stop. She tricked me once into taking her to Build-a-Bear. Well, $75 later, she had a unicorn named “Rosa” with 2 pairs of Sketchers sneakers, a tu-tu, a Leather Jacket, a cell phone, and a variety of t-shirts, we finally left the store. Once we got home, she stripped the thing down and started to dress up her little brother. Not sure why Rosa needed a cell phone, but her Little brother looked pretty hip in his new leather jacket.

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Tyler in Rosa’s leather jacket.

Every time I’d see my little stink, she’s run up to me and jump in my arms. Around 11 years old, she was just too damn big, but she’d do it anyway. Of course, I’d oblige and swing her around like the little rag doll that she used to be. We’d try to go on adventures at Grandpa & Grandma’s house, but all the developing in the neighborhood would bore us and scare grandma, so about 20 minutes into our adventure, a search and rescue unit would come and  “save us.” Then we’d just be bored and share snarly, sarcastic remarks, reminding us that we were pretty much the same person…. no matter what, we always had each other to “get” one another.

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Greatest picture day outfit EVER!

At one point she grew boobs and I grew a beer gut. We started calling each other a “bitch’ and then we’d giggle in recognition of both fact and folly. She still jumps into my arms when I see her, even though I am now officially twice her age. She introduces me to her friends (who are all such gorgeous little women) as “the best Aunt ever (sorry other Aunties, but I am the favorite).”  I told her once she was 16, I wouldn’t be  her Aunt anymore; I’d be her friend. I have always been her friend… or like a big sister from forever ago, so she could just call me by my name. She toys with it, but that might be more of an 18 or 21 year old kinda thing.

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Best Pals.

Last weekend I went to VA with Captain Clam to surprise this not-so-little monster for her sweet 16. I almost cried when she came in. Her mouth was wide open in surprise of all these visitors screaming and blowing horns and shooting confetti poppers at her. She saw me and ran up with scary amounts of joy and squooshed my brains out. I never realized that she cherished the last 16 years as much as I did. Of course I popped a hernia trying to pick her up and swing her all over the place (she is just too big for all of that these days, and so am I!)… then I had as fun of a time as I could with a herd of 16 year olds in a well decorated basement.

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SURPRISE!!!

She was born on a Tuesday, just like me. In fact, when we are together, it’s hard to get us straight. I am called Gabby, and she is Stephanie. And we just laugh. She looks like my sister, but she acts just like me (that’s where my diligent sarcasm and wit come into play). It’s like she took all the goodness that I had and mixed it into all of everything that is just a little bit better. She is my favorite lump.

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Twinsies.

All I can say, Ms. Gabby Ann, is that I hope when I have my daughters they are just like you. I am so proud of you and the young woman you have become. I love you.  Happy Birthday, my little bitch (crap, can I say that in such a sentimental tribute? Yes. Yes I can. You’ve earned it.).

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Gab, Captain Clam, and Me at the Polish Town Fair 2013. She is clearly the coolest person alive.

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Adventure, Bucket List, Change, Contest, Humor, Lotto, Opinion, POOP, Winning

You’re a Winner

I have always been pretty lucky. When I was a kid, it seemed that any raffle I entered would be a winning experience for me. One time I won a bike kickstand at Bike Safety Day. My parents would take us kids to the Jersey Shore every summer and we would play games on the boardwalk. I’d come home with a zillion stuffed animals. Actually, we all would. The only difference between my sisters’ dolls and mine were how we won them. While my sisters would play games of skill, I’d play games of luck. I always had a knack for knowing what number to put my dollar down on. I once walked up to a claw game, stuffed a dollar in and instantly won a talking Steve Urkel doll. The claw went down and came up with a tiny piece of his rubber glasses holding on (almost literally by a thread). It’s like I just knew I’d win, so I played with complete confidence. Sadly, my 6th Sense has dimmed as I have grown older, but I do manage to carry some luck around with me every once in a while.

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He always made me feel like a winner.

Every time I play the Lottery, I am beyond sure that I am going to win. I immediately start planning my life as a millionaire, convinced that I could buy the entire state of Maine if I wait a few years before splurging and let my money sit and collect interest. When I talk to Captain Clam about it, he brings up all of the places in the world we could possibly live, if even for just a few months of our lives.

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Investing in Hope and Chance.

My first purchase would be a new pair of pants to replace the pair that I had soiled upon learning of my amazing luck. Then, of course, I would wear those pants to my new lawyer’s office to discuss what the heck was about to happen to me. I might buy a sandwich or pizza somewhere in between the pants and the Lawyer.  I am confident that I would opt to be paid out immediately, meaning I’d receive a little less that half of the entire sum after taxes (I’m okay with that).

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Poop Jokes: Around since the beginning of time.

My next order of business would be typing lessons. If you have ever g-chatted with me, you know I am a drunk kitten on the keyboard. I can remember having maybe one lesson as a child, but never understood how many hours of my life would be spent clacking away at plastic letters, so I never took typing seriously.

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Typing = Not Serious

My second order of business would be to move my home base. While the Brooklyn Studio apartment that Le Clam and I share with 4 kitties and 2 beta fish is very cozy, it also totally sucks. I think it’s fair to say that we deserve at least a one bedroom…. maybe even an extra half bath. I don’t know if we’d rent or own, but I would sure kiss this apartment (and most likely Brooklyn) goodbye.

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Fit for a Clam Fam.

The third order of biz would be to get the hell out of town. I don’t know where we’d go first (and I certainly don’t want you to follow us there) or how long we’d stay, but I do know that I don’t want to live life without seeing wild zebras or the Pyramids in person. I want to feel small and insignificant (more so than I do now).

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Captain Clam might be jealous, but the world will be our Oyster!

A priority would be donating some of the winnings. I would donate to my Alma Maters, SUNY Stony Brook and the Fashion Institute of Technology, and ask that they please design a bad ass bathroom with my name on it. Ideally the bathroom would be one stall with mood lighting and music playing, but that might be overkill (at least at Stony Brook). I would also hold a contest for prospective students who cannot afford school, but really really want and deserve to go. As a former Professional Student, I truly understand the passion for learning and the hunger of a starving artist/business school student. The contest would vary each year and would be the greatest contest of all time.

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There is precedence for this request… and that last name is so close to my own…. Perhaps bathroom humor runs in the family?

I’d also like to spend time on making art. It’s an activity that I love doing, but have had to give up for the past few months due to laziness and lack of creativity. I don’t think that money will inspire me, but it might help me inspire myself by giving me the resources to afford to even step out of my house.

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The good old days.

Of course I’d make Captain Clam an honest man and wear his pearl and become Lady Clam (if he’ll have the company of course). Then we could settle down and have an animal sanctuary in Alaska or Canada or somewhere cold (maybe even the entire state of Maine!). He has talked about wolves and snow leopards and I am thinking more of babies, but I’m sure our issues would be worked out rather harmoniously (as long as there are cats involved).

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Apparently it IS a thing!

Another dream of ours is to own a vintage furniture shop. This dream will probably happen even if we don’t hit it big with 5 lucky numbers. You see, His Clamminess and I are huge furniture nerds. We met in a furniture studio and fell in love while talking about writing tables and chaise lounges (with or without tufting?). It’s all very romantic (as romantic as a Polished Espresso Mahogany finish will allow).

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It’s true… Clams included.

I do also think that somewhere between the orders of business 1 and 3 , I would abandon facebook. Sorry, but it’s none of your business what I am doing with my money, and I would just irritate myself if I became one of those people who boasts about how rich they are. Boasting about awesomeness is a different story.

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Of course our incredible families would reap from our ridiculous stroke of luck. They deserve SOMETHING for having to put up with the two of us for 30-something years. Clam and I are both the youngest of 3; his family is all boys, and mine is all girls. God Bless both of those sets of parents and siblings (I am at a loss in the picture department. Sorry!).

I have been reading up on winning millions and have come across stories where people ran through their money so quickly. I can see how spending money can become an easy task. I wonder what people spend their loot on, and look to celebrities and sports stars for assistance. It’s all CRAP for the most part. I’d like to think that money would not change me, but that would be a silly thought. I do, however, understand that money will not solve all of your problems, and you can only numb the pain for so long with huge toy purchases and other shit no one actually needs.

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I do not need this.

The following things would not be on my shopping list, as I feel no sense of need or desire for them:

Caviar – Please google “caviar” and see how brutal the process of harvesting the caviar is. No thanks.

McMansion– That’s so 2004. Plus, I doubt that we need 18,625 SQFT of inside living space. I am dating a Clam for Christ sake!

Tiny Forks– I don’t understand them, don’t need them, and don’t want them.

Super Duper Cars– I don’t have a car now. I don’t really need one, let alone 6 (can you imagine trying to park in NYC with that many cars!?). If I did buy a vehicle, it’d probably be a little pick-up truck. That way, I can help my pals when they have to move!

$450,000 Crack Party– Tyrone Biggums, as portrayed by Dave Chapelle, lost it all! According to my research, a lot of people who lose their winnings do so on account of alcohol, strippers, and bad decisions made on drugs. I love to throw a party, but I think I’ll stick to wine, beer, and fancy tacos.

Cosmetic Surgery– I don’t want to be any other character but me. I might, however, consider Lasers to permanenty remove my mustache, and also removal of my tramp stamp (since it’s no longer 2002 and I am no longer 20).

Friends– Because that kind of weird shit happens. No thanks. Buy your own damn drinks!

Among the obvious expenses (like paying off student loans and other miscellaneous debt), here is a list of Weird must-haves in my millionaire shopping cart:

An Awesome Sofa– As stated above, Captain Clam and I love furniture. I also happen to work for one of the best Upholstery Workrooms in the universe. I think we could get a bad-ass deal on something beautiful, and even add our personal touches by having Le Clam himself design the rump rester.

A Bad Ass XEROX copy machine/scanner/printer- This is the only thing that I miss from my last job. I still think about it quite fondly.

Instant Photo Booth- Sometimes I get sentimental.

A Tree Farm– I love trees! I want to grow and raise all kinds of wood species so we can built our furniture sustainably. It’d also be nice to eat some home grown apples and other yummy stuffs.

Stained Glass Windows – Because why not?

Wanda Raimundi-Ortiz Painting/Drawing– Wanda is a friend of mine from half a lifetime ago. I met her because she was the previous tenant in my old Loft in the South Bronx. I have a few art pieces that were salvaged (one from the garbage and one was literally chopped out of a wall). I’d like to one day actually pay her for a gorgeous creation.

Well, this post has escalated out of control, but then again so has my imagination. On the eve of one of the largest Mega Millions drawings since the last largest Mega Millions drawing, I can’t help but be psyched. I never play Lotto (except for Scratch-off Fridays with Captain Clam every once in a while (75% of the time I win my money back – at least)), but I have a good feeling… kinda like I had when I walked up to the claw machine and won that Urkel doll. Even if I win my $5 back, I am content. If I win nothing, then I am out $5, but blogged up a storm, so it measures itself out somehow.

I am reading back and realizing that my dreams aren’t so far fetched. I mean, I already own some stained glass and just bought a really nice fancy futon (it has cup holders built in!). My advice to all of you, if any of you ever do win, is to sign the back of the ticket. I have seen too many documentaries about Lottery fraud (okay just one hour long show, but whatever) and I would hate to see that happen to me or you or anyone else (unless they were total dick-holes and deserved to be ripped off).

Mega Millions is 400 Million dollars, the drawing is Friday the 13th, and I’m feeling incredibly lucky these days… I better go find myself a good lawyer and sturdy pair of pants.

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Adventure, Employment, farts, Humor, Life, POOP, Uncategorized

It’s OK to Poop at Work

The other day my feet got wet on the way to work. I had these cheap little Payless shoes on, so, naturally, my feet started to smell. They smelled so badly that I could smell them through a stuffy nose. I ran to the closest shoe store on my lunch break (which just happened to be Payless) and bought some shoes. Now, when I say “some shoes” I mean 4 pairs of shoes, 2 pairs of slipper socks and $2 bracelet donation for Breast Cancer awareness. When I spoke to Captain Clam, I only told him how much money I saved. Oops! Of course, I was happy to have had the stinky feet debacle of 2013 while Payless was having a BOGO sale, so the $60 spent was not too shabby for all those things (except now my feet are starting to stink again on their own accord (damn plastic shoes!!)).

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These are them.

As I was leaving the store, I saw this awesome Diner right next door. I am almost positive that the universe would have ended if I did not have a grilled cheese immediately. About an hour or so later, the belly rumbles started. There was simply too much stuff in my belly. The inevitable was about to happen: The Work Poop.

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It moves your bowels.

Oh Man. We have all been there. I previously worked at places that had private bathrooms, where the bathroom was just a small room with a sink and a toilet (and one time, strangely enough, a full bathtub and shower). My new work facilities are three stalls, two poorly working sinks, and a hand blower that produces hurricane force winds.  Sadly, no one actually uses the hand dryer, they use toilet paper, which sometimes (very rarely) leaves the bathroom without any TP under the sink (a catastrophe in wait, if you ask me).

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The smallest stall is for women who are under 4 feet tall. It hurts to use. This stall is usually void of any TP as it the closest to the sink and completely uninhabitable by most of us. Of course, you can make yourself fit with minimal effort, but it’s a little claustrophobic and extremely dark. The door, however is always closed. And since no one uses it, it has become the best pooping stall in the ladies bathroom. The only drawback is the toilet paper issue.

I generally don’t like to poop in public, but will definitely do it and shine as I recount the tale of my bathroom adventure. According to my cousin, Girl Ryan, there is a phobia known as PIP, which is the phobia of Pooping in Public. She has written extensively on her blog HERE about the fear and overcoming it. I have read her post a million times and was shocked to learn that I had been doing some of the things that ALL women do.

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Pooping in public can sometimes feel like this classic scene from “Bridesmaids.”

For instance, I really thought I was the only lady to flush the toilet if I had to poop and someone was in the restroom with me during extreme emergency. I do that at work sometimes if I think someone will come in while the deed is being done. If someone walks in just as the deed is about to be done, I get stage fright and the deed gets pinched. If someone does come in before it happens, I seriously pussy out and leave. No guts, No glory, right?

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Where the magic happens.

When I started dreaming up this post and writing it in my head (where it sounded hilarious and witty), I reached out to That Girl Ryan to ask for a link and her blessing (after all she did write her poop post first). Of course she obliged because we are all interested in getting the message out there, and told me that she has a new poop post in the works. I am so excited for it and hope that this poop post inspires her to get that shit together (so many puns, so little time).

When I was a teen, I worked at the Pancake Cottage in my town (Riverhead, Long Island (the greatest shit hole on earth)). I was lucky enough to work with one of my best friends. We had nicknames that we would call each other (she still calls me Goober to this day). Well, I was really good at making Milkshakes. Whenever anyone ordered a Shake, I was the go-to girl. One (or both) of us  dreamed up the perfect concoction: The Coffee Milkshake, which is self- explanatory (mind you this was the 90’s and frappaccinos had not yet taken off in our small town). I proceeded to make the most deliciously bad ass Coffee Milkshake ever. After exactly 20 minutes and 36 seconds, my dear Ferox and I looked at each other and KNEW that the milkshake was a really bad idea and we were about to pay for our milky sins.

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Instant regret.

I actually had to email her about this story to remember how we handled the Pancake Cottage Coffee Milkshake shit-storm. I needed to know if we both used the bathroom at the same time and flushed the entire time or if we had guarded the door, pretending that it was a single toilet water closet and we were simply waiting in line. Both of these false memories were wrong. According to her memory, we ran the water for each other. How simple (and what great friends we are!)!

I learned a great lesson that day: It’s OK to poop at work.

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Even today, I walked into the ladies room and someone blew that shit up ( I won’t name any names, but it was a small woman  who looks like she smells like apricots and chap-stick made out of sunshine). The bathroom was a fog of farts and residue. It was hard not to tear up from the burning stench, and even harder not to acknowledge this woman’s feat with a high five. It was simply ignored as if there was no awful odor seeping it’s way into the fibers of my clothing. The worst part about this type of work poo is that it’s not yours, but if timed properly, you can and will be blamed for it.

It happens more frequently than I’d like, but I do go into the restroom (to rest, of course) and someone is in there trying to get their business done. I walk in and I can feel them cringe, knowing that I know that they are trying to do the do (sometimes they are also just on their phones, which makes it hard for me to even go number 1, knowing that the party on the other line might hear my tinkle). It’s at that awkward point where people are clearing their throats or fidgeting with the TP that I just want to say” It’s okay to poop!” I really don’t care. We all poop (I’m pretty sure there’s a children’s book about it).

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Awkward for everyone involved…

I have no idea why pooping is so taboo. I mean, if we didn’t poop, we’d die a horrible death. I can understand why farting is funny. It’s loud and sometimes comes out unexpectedly (and it can be so foul that you can’t help but laugh at just how disgusting you are), but pooping? It’s like, “Oh no, she’s totally excreting in this room built for excreting. How dare she!”  You may often feel like if you are discovered, you will be forever shamed for the rest of your term of employment as The Pooper. Why does it have to be like that? Whaaa!!!!

Unfortunately, it is like that. Too bad there is not some noise machine in the bathroom that cancels out all noises or keeps noises restrained to the inside of the stall. Or perhaps mandatory fountains in every bathroom that run loudly enough to muffle the sound of splashes, but gentle enough to relax all the right muscles.

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Just looking at this makes me have to pee so bad!

Air freshener is always a nice commodity for a good cover up, but it’s a dead give-away. My air freshener trick is to spray in a random corner of the bathroom – just a squirt (after you wash your hands of course), then run like a bat out of hell so the fumes don’t stick to you. I advise using the air freshener every time you go. People will be thrown off and will either think you poop every hour or think nothing of it since the bathroom will always be fresh. Suckers!

No matter what happens… Ignore and Deny! Whether or not you are indeed the Pooper or not, just act normal like nothing is wrong or different in the atmosphere. Ignore it. Don’t mention it. People will notice and might follow suit and get over the fact that bodily functions are not put on hold just because you are at work. If someone is like”Damn, Girl!” Just smile and give ’em a High Five (after hand washing, of course).

THIS is a great read for anyone interested in learning how to poop at work effectively.

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